Willowbark and Honey
by Laura Schiller
Summary: For Hopie and Brython, love started with a headache and a cup of tea.


Willow

Willowbark and Honey

By Laura Schiller

Series: The Faerie Path

Copyright: Frewin Jones and HarperCollins Publishing

Lord Brython of Ravensare sighed inwardly and leaned back in his chair at the edge of the ballroom. He was listening, or pretending to listen, to Lady Gaidheal's very involved account of her search for a new lady's maid after the last one had quit to raise a family – "There's simply no good help to be found nowadays" – and wondering when it would be polite to excuse himself. His head felt as if dwarven-smiths had been using it as an anvil all day and the lady's high-pitched, unmusical voice was not helping matters.

"...came to the interview with _unbound hair_, my lord, and such a mess of tangles as it was! Thinks I, if the slattern cannot even control her own hair, I should certainly distrust her with my own! So I looked her over – thus – and said..."

"Good evening to you, my lord and lady! How are you enjoying the ball?"

Brython closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thankfulness. The low, soothing voice belonged to Princess Hopie, Oberon and Titania's second-eldest daughter, who sat down between him and Lady Gaidheal with a polite smile and an elegant swish of light green silk.

"Marvellous!" Lady Gaidheal gushed. "I have had the most exquisite time. The music was beyond compare."

In that, he had to agree. "How could it be otherwise, my lady," he said warmly, "When your gracious sister, Princess Zara, was kind enough to sing and play for us?"

"Yes, indeed." Hopie laughed a little, as if remembering something. "It was most kind, for though Zara lives for music, she mislikes the duty of playing for balls as it deprives her of the chance for dancing. Father had to bribe her with new jewels."

Brython smiled. "I also have younger sisters at home, my lady. A delight and a trial, are they not?"

"You have hit the nail on the head, my lord."

Looking at Hopie as they spoke, he suddenly realized that she was prettier than he remembered. there was a soft shine to her chestnut-colored hair and a thoughtful look in her pale oval face which he liked. She had the same blue eyes as her father the king, which could be piercingly intense in their expression. She was looking at him that way right now. He surreptitiously glanced down his tunic and hose to check for stains.

He did not know her very well – their acquaintance was limited to occasional small talk at social functions like this one, which she did not often attend. Rumor said she enjoyed solitude like her sisters Eden and Sancha, and that she preferred working at the Healers' Wing and studying herb-lore to the sparkling world of balls. He respected her for that.

"Are you well, my lord?"

Suddenly he realized he had been thinking and staring at her for longer than was proper. He sat bolt upright in his chair and blushed. Lady Gaidheal was looking curious; the little gossip would probably inform the whole castle by morning that he had an eye on the Princess.

"Yes, yes. 'Tis but a slight headache. It will pass."

Hopie's eyebrows rose; a purposeful glint came into her eye. "A headache, my lord? That is not to be trifled with. Have you any other symptoms? Fever? Pains? A sore throat? Sniffles?"

He'd awakened the healer in her, and now she reminded him uncomfortably of the foul-tasting medicine, the prickly feeling of healers' magic and hours of enforced bed rest he had undergone as a boy.

"No," he told her honestly.

"Since when have you had it?"

"Since about noon."

"Why, then 'tis time you removed yourself from the bright lights and crowding of this place, for they surely do you no good." She stood up. "Come with me, my lord. I shall brew you an infusion of willowbark tea, and with a small charm upon it, your headache will fly away as though it had never been."

Her eyes were just the color of the sea as it caressed the white beach of Castle Ravensare. A twinge of pain decided the matter; he stood up.

"Oh, but my lady!" fluttered Lady Gaidheal. "What shall Their Majesties say if they find out you have left the ball with a man?"

Hopie's eyes went stony, as her father's did when arguing with his council. "They know I am twenty summers old and capable of judging right and wrong for myself. There is nothing wrong with aiding one who is ill."

"I am not ill," Brython protested, but Hopie waved him into silence.

"Come to my stillroom, if you please?" she repeated, glancing up at him with a half-impatient, half-anxious expression.

"As you wish."

Arm in arm, causing heads to turn and surprised voices to whisper as they went, Hopie and Brython left the hall.

Hopie was surprised to find that her heart was beating rather quickly, and she was unusually aware of the warmth of him next to her. She hoped he wouldn't find her pushy or rude, dragging him away from a party to dose him with bitter medicine. She just couldn't help it, he looked so pathetically pale and drawn. Nothing like the smiling, golden-haired, amber-eyed man she was used to seeing.

"What fee do you charge for your services, my lady?"

She dropped his arm as if it were made of Isenmort. "Do you think me a mercenary? I heal all who come to me, whether they be wealthy or no."

What he said next surprised her. "As you are a Princess and lack for nothing, you are free to feel this way...but were you a simple citizen, you would be glad to have the chance to earn your bread by your skill. There is no shame in that."

Subdued and embarrassed, she held out her arm again and he took it. "True, my lord...I spoke in anger. Forgive me?"

He nodded and grinned, little sparks dancing in his eyes as they passed by a candle sconce in the hallway. "So even the quiet Aurealis sister has some fire in her. It rather suits you."

"Thanks." Embarrassed, she tried to direct the conversation away from herself. "You should see Tania and Rathina in their quarrels; they shout fit to make the earth tremble. And then a moment later, they weep in each other's arms and all is forgiven."

Brython laughed and told a story about his own sisters; they walked along the empty corridors, meeting no one but the occasional servant since nearly every Court member was at the ball. They chatted together as if they had been friends for years. Brython was so easy for Hopie to talk to; easier, in fact, than Rathina, Zara, Tania or even Oberon. The former were so energetic and lighthearted that she did not understand them; she latter was absorbed in ruling his kingdom and, though he tried, could not always find time to spare for his wife and daughters. She still remembered how her parents had fought as a child, so tempestuously that the balance of nature in the Mortal World was upset, and it took a rather nasty prank of Robin Goodfellow's to get them to reconcile.

Hopie had thought then that if she ever got married, she wanted a husband with common sense, who, when they disagreed, would talk things through reasonably without flying into a rage.

She liked being alone in the corridors at night with Brython; it made her nervous, but in an exciting, tingly way that had nothing to do with being afraid for her virtue. She trusted him instinctively, without knowing why. When the door to her stillroom came into view, followed by a strong smell of herbs, she was almost disappointed.

"Here we are," she said, gesturing for him to enter with a joking flourish. She had a moment of agonized wonder if the place was clean and tidy, then by the light from the candles in the hall, she realized it was. Lighting a few more candles around the room, she led him in.

It was a plain little room with stone walls, lined with wooden shelves stocked with bottles of different-colored liquids and powders, boxes with unknown contents, scrolls and stacks of paper, and several precious books. Bunches of dried plants hung from the ceiling. There was a fireplace at the end of the room, with the fire down to the embers, and next to it a stone table with a clay mortar and pestle standing on it, as well as a wooden flower-press, a quill, an inkstand, and a few more scattered pieces of paper.

"My recipes," she explained, bundling them up in her arms and stowing them away on the shelf. "Now, my lord, for your medicine."

She flew around the room - heating water - snatching a few crumbling pieces of tree bark from one of the boxes on the shelves – "How fortunate that I gathered this yesterday!" – getting a piece of cloth for a strainer – picking up a spoonful of something shiny, viscous and pale yellow - and before he knew it, turning to him with a look of triumph and a mug of steaming, bitter-smelling brown stuff in her hands.

He made a face as several very unpleasant memories of childhood illness assailed him.

She laughed out loud; he took the mug and drank it. To his surprise, it was not as bitter as he expected.

"What is - ?"

"Honey, my lord."

"Ah. I feared to ask you what that yellow substance was. This is the most pleasant medicine I have ever tasted, my lady. I thank you, with all my heart."

Something about the tone of his voice, the glimmer in his eyes, made her look away and poke the fire with a little flutter in her stomach. She had a strange feeling he was not only talking about the brew.

"You are welcome, my lord," she murmured, turning to look back at him.

He thought she was a great deal like her tea – unremarkable at first glance, but with a wonderful healing power and hidden sweetness. It was no wonder she was a healer; just being in the room with her made him feel more relaxed and refreshed than he had in days.

"And now," she continued, slowly and rather regretfully, as he sipped the last of the tea, "I suppose you should retire to your own quarters. Rest and sleep will do you more good than even this tea can."

"For be it from me to disobey the wisdom of a healer," he teased, putting the mug back on the table. "From now on, whenever my head pains me, I shall think of you."

"Not only then, I hope," she retorted lightly, "For I have no wish to be remembered with pain."

"No, not only then...Hopie." He took a step closer and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. The way he said her name was like a caress.

"No, my memories of you shall be warm and sweet as honeyed tea."

One moment the hot breath from his whispering was on her cheeks, the next he was kissing her, softly, hesitantly. It was a totally new sensation, new and beautiful beyond anything she could have imagined.

"Now, Hopie... will you remember me?"

A hoarse whisper was all she could manage; her head was spinning. "Yes, of course...Brython."

He stepped back, dropped a light feathery kiss on the back of her hand, then shut the door and left. Hopie leaned on the table, feeling that if she didn't grip it tightly, she would float away with happiness.

She felt as if she had been sleeping all her life, and that kiss had finally woken her up. From now on, her real life, whatever it had in store, would begin.


End file.
